


Thirty Days of Berserk

by LukeVonCastiel



Category: Berserk
Genre: 30 Days of Writing, Alternate Canon, Angst, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fate, Gen, Guilt, M/M, Other, Prompt Fic, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Symbolism, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:18:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 13,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LukeVonCastiel/pseuds/LukeVonCastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Berserk drabbles, the majority focusing on Griffith's character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a link to the 'writing challenge' from which I took the prompts. (http://jagwriter.tumblr.com/post/56708064992/pugglemuggle-hawkwardeye-using-the-prompts) As a sidenote, that's not my Tumblr.

There’s a child.

He’s nothing special, at least, not to their eyes. He’s just another orphan, a starving beggar of the streets. His limbs are thin, his hair is ratty, a wavy mane of white streaked with dirt. His clothes are tattered rags, his feet bare and decorated in cuts.

But if their eyes looked harder, they would see it.

The way his eyes light up. While all the other street vermin lie decaying in alleys, he lives with impossible vigor. When others kneel down and cry he runs, his shaky legs carrying him up cobbles and stairs. While other children die he races down the streets, only stopping when it comes into sight.

The castle, glowing golden and shimmering in the sunset. The light reflecting off its pillars, birds flying through the air, pink clouds hovering behind turrets. The noblemen and women cavorting on the balconies, sipping wine and laughing. Like an image from a book of fairytales, a fine oil painting of the most picturesque of dreamscapes.

And they still don’t see him. The rich, the impoverished, the human, the animal, none see the boy with the tattered form and the shining eyes. They pass him by with nary a thought, nary a glance. Not even to the red object that hangs around his neck, a bright scarlet against the boy’s pale flesh.

They do not look at him.

They do not see the boy with the dream.

They do not see their future king.

They do not see the beginning…

The Hawk’s first steps before flight.


	2. Accusation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: references to self-harm, violence, non-con/dub-con

'He has no heart.'

Images flash before his eyes. It’s like lightning, like a storm that never leaves. It burns him and lashes out at him, until he freezes over and can’t feel it anymore.

It’s the images of troops riding into battle, slaughtering and being slaughtered. It’s the blood, their blood, and it won’t wash off it, it won’t ever wash off. It’s the faces of men he knows, that he’s smiled at, that he’s stood before and shouted words of motivation, words of strength.

And it’s their faces he sees falling, as they meet their death with screams. It’s the blades of their foes cutting into their flesh, it’s their bodies being trampled into the dirt and the dust, and their souls crying out to him ‘I died for your dream.’

It’s the image of a little boy, no more than ten. His eyes filled with wonder, his hands trembling with anxiety and excitement as he hands him his bowl, his evening meal. It’s the smile of a boy with the dreams of a knight, of a hero.

It’s his corpse laid out on the battlefield.

It’s the image of her face when she sees him, in the arms of that man. It’s the clench of his stomach and the bile in his throat as his hands touch his body, touch him everywhere. It’s his fluids, his saliva, his wrinkled, disgusting flesh. It’s that man’s face filled with ecstasy as his own body tears and bleeds. It’s the sensation of forcing out moans when all he wants to do is scream.

It’s the feeling of nails in his arms and the ripping of flesh and the blood. It’s the red in the ripples of water as he pulls away his skin, and watches as the touch of that man washes away, even though he knows it never will.

It’s the lies in his throat as he speaks, as he denies. It wasn’t for them, it was never for them, that he never felt the guilt even as the little boy’s face flashes before his eyes and the feeling of that man inside him makes him shudder. It’s her arms around him when he focuses on reality and buries the pain and the guilt once more.

It’s the sensation in his heart when he’s around his soldier. His ally, his raider, his friend, his everything. The only one he ever trusted with his soul, with the few scraps of emotion he could bare to show. The one who left him in the snow, left him in the cold.

It’s the image of him when the princess is beneath him. It’s the lash of a whip and the cut of a knife and it’s the blade on his tongue as it’s ripped from his mouth. It’s the rage as he sees his soldier again, the pain at seeing the one who betrayed him. It’s the trembling of his wrists as he tries to lift a sword, it’s the shame and the horror as his form is revealed to his men.

It’s the image of a broken dream, of his soldier leaving, of the Band of the Hawks failing.

It’s the cries of his dead men.

It’s the fall of his kingdom.

It’s the shattering of his heart.

'So he had one after all.'


	3. Restless

’It seems you are done.’

Guts looked up from his handiwork, the corpses of the kidnappers strewn around the forest floor. His eyes immediately caught the other man’s frame, swathed in purple, blue, and white.

'I've taken care of it.'

He pulled off his hat as the other smiled slightly at him, not his innocent smile, just the smallest of quirks at the end of his lips. Guts reached down to collect the dead kidnappers’ payment, commenting on their greed. They had thrown away their lives for these coins. Not that they had known.

'Leave it there.'

Guts turned his head to observe the other, tossing the bag of coins in the air. His face was calm as he spoke, voice even. He listened to him, sighed, and threw gold back amidst the corpses. A waste, but one he would permit if the other asked it of him.

'Is it safe to leave that bald minister around?'

He hoisted his sword up onto his shoulders, looking at the castle in the distance. He heard the footsteps as the other walked, moving to stand beside him. He spoke, voice soft, his pale body seeming to glow in the dark shade of the woods. Guts raised an eyebrow. So the bald one was permitted to live, despite the threat he posed. He adjusted his sword as he watched the man, hugging his daughter joyously.

'The castle will be in an uproar…'

Guts smirked. The sounds from the palace could be heard right now, faint voices like wraiths in the wind. The castle itself glowed orange against the horizon, smoke billowing from its top like some enormous chimney. No one would know how the fire came about, no one would no who had planned it. They would never suspect a dead man after all.

'Do you think it's terrible…?'

Guts turned his head, staring at the other. He wondered if he’d heard correctly, or even heard him at all. The voice he had spoken with was weak, more of a shuddering breath than a sentence. It was as if…

His train of thought ceased as the other stepped forward, and then turned to him. His face was open and innocent, but more than that, it was pained. Almost as if someone had taken a knife to his stomach and gutted him.

'Do you think I'm a terrible person?'

Guts felt his eyes widen as he stared, unable to speak for a moment. The other’s voice was different, not the even calm of a leader. No, it was laced with uncertainty, with the fear of his judgment. As if Guts’ words were the deciding factor of his fate.

And it wasn’t just that. He sounded…restless. As if his soul was shivering, unsure, suddenly anxious about his path, his dream. The bare branches of the trees brushed together behind him, the cool air suddenly feeling heavy.

And then Guts smiled.

And laughed.

'Idiot! What could someone who's killed a hundred people say?'

And the restlessness faded away, the other’s soul calmed.

At least, until the next morning, and the fight on the snowy hill.


	4. Snowflake

It was a symbol of abandonment.

As the world froze over, he was abandoned. As ice fell from the skies, he was abandoned. As the cool wind blew through bare branches, he was abandoned. On a cold, winter hill, abandoned.

He couldn’t let him leave, not now, not ever. Not him, not his. But he did, he failed. His sword snapped, his mind broke, and he fell to his knees before him. He felt his blade in his shoulder, felt him turn, felt him leave.

Mine. Mine. Gone.

Liar! Traitor! You said you were mine!

Why? Why! Why are you leaving me?

…Was I really a terrible person after all?

As the flakes fell, he sat, abandoned in the snow.

….

He knew what he was going to do. As he watched his warriors fight, he knew. As he watched his beast overwhelm his betrayer, he knew. As he rescued that woman from the crumbling rocks, he knew. He knew what he would do.

It was a strange thing for him to do, a being with no heart. No human emotion. And yet he knew he would do it.

This is what you did to me.

As he heard the other’s voice shouting, he knew. As he gave his response, he knew. As he left him there in the snow, in the cold, in the ice, he knew.

Like the rocks, giant pebbles, that lay strewn across the battlefield, he was abandoning him.

Abandoning him in the snow.


	5. Haze

It was like a fragmented mirage, shimmering in the darkness. The unclear, rippling surface of a black pool, burnt eyes filled with tears.

Some slithered in his mind, curling around in the shadows, while others clawed their way through his thoughts, ripping and tearing until was naught more than a pained, shredded mess. Some dripped slowly, drop after drop until his mind was swimming, a pool of slithering, shredded mess, unclear and confusing.

And then it struck out like lightning. He struck out like lightning. It danced through his head like electricity, shocks raising through his body, his soul. Amidst the faces, the names, the places, standing before his glowing castle in the sky, he stood. Amidst the thick and convoluted mess of his life, he stood.

And then he turned and walked away.

The pool in his mind boiled, steam rising from its surface. His rage poured though his very being, scalding him like hot irons and the lash of whips. It burnt him, it stung him, it bubbled and spilt over, it filled his mind and thoughts with anger.

Then it stopped.

It cooled.

And he lay still, his mind returning to its empty state. The waters of thought and memory washed away, waiting to fill again, for the flash of lightning and the sorrow and anger that followed.

It waited in the form of a haze, the beginnings of a fragmented mirage shimmering in darkness.


	6. Flame

It was the strangest dream.

Guts stood on a small hill, the one on which Casca had healed his wounds with Judeau’s Elf dust. He looked out over the Hawks’ camp, millions of small campfires spreading all the way to the horizon. The stars of the night sky were hidden by the sheer brightness of the flames.

Suddenly, the flames began to move, fires merging together as they all headed for the centre of the camp. Guts followed them with his eyes even though he knew where they were heading. His hands, he somehow had both of them, clenched into fists as his eyes finally stopped.

And then they widened.

It reminded him of Heretic Burnings. There, at the top of a huge bonfire, white wings and arms crucified to a wooden cross, the Hawk stood. His entire body was on fire, and the flames around him only grew as the other fires joined his own. His mouth hung open as he screamed, and yet his body did not burn.

Guts’s hands clenched in on themselves even tighter before he turned away, refusing to look at the Hawk, the traitor. His form turned and his eyes took in what stood behind him.

He stared unflinching at the glowing castle, the light from the fires behind him lighting it up like the sun. Huge monuments stood, of winged creatures and soldiers, carved from white marble. And yet, leading up to it stood the most repulsive staircase.

A pile of corpses, heaped up on top of each other, each one bearing the symbol of the Hawks.

With a sneer Guts turned away, disgust on his face. He looked back to the bonfire, and froze.

The entire campsite was covered in shadow, his shadow. A hulking darkness hang over the area. The flames had died out, mere embers where once had stood an inferno. Guts couldn’t stop himself from looking, his eyes catching those of the Hawk.

'Don't leave me!'

Guts took a step back as his voice filled the air, a scream, a plea, the pathetic sound of begging. It sounded wrong. The proud voice of the Hawk, reduced to this. Yet it continued.

'You can't leave! You're mine! Mine! You can’t leave, you can’t!’

Guts took another step backward, before ripping his eyes away from the piercing, desperate gaze of the other and running away. The castle was gone now, replaced with a thick wood into which he could escape. He ran toward it, fleeing from those eyes. He only looked back once, to ensure that he was not being followed.

There was nothing left to follow him.

Bile rose in his throat as he looked back at the camp. It was gone, and so was the hill, replaced with a landscape of screaming, red faces, and a lake of blood, so thick and deep it had turned black. He turned his head away, needing to escape, escape from this.

He came face-to-face with him. He wore no clothes, no helmet, his pathetic form free for all eyes to see. His mouth opened to speak but he had no tongue, his hand reached out to grab him but his wrists were too weak.

'Only…you…'

And then Guts roared, shouted his rage, his despair, as the form before him was covered in blood. The thick lake from behind him swarmed forward like the fires and cloaked his friend, his enemy, in a form of darkness.

The form of a Hawk, once again wreathed in the flames of his dreams.

Guts awoke.


	7. Formal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU ending: Griffith is killed by Guts.

He stared blankly into the distance, ignoring the feel of the heavy blade positioned at his throat. His black wings melted into pool of liquid red, and his dark form faded, being replaced by that of a broken man. His silver crown slipped from his head, falling with a clatter to the ground. Yet, despite the fact that his world was shattering and dying around him, his mind wandered.

Back to a time when things were simpler, if things had ever been simple for him. A formal event, clothes of purple, blue, and white, frills and lace. His hair tied back in a ribbon, a smile on his face and his dream in his reach.

He bowed to the nobles and the royals, flattered the women, plotted the downfall of the queen. All simple things, so simple.

But none as simple as that smile, that expression of happiness. Shared between them, his raider, his friend, the only other who knew of his plot, hidden as it was beneath this event of formalities. That smile, so innocent, so pure.

Shattered like everything else. Everything else he had ever worked for. A mercenary band, broken, a kingdom, stolen, his body, desecrated. No childhood to reminisce about, no humanity allowed in the face of his dream.

No friend, no lover.

All happy memories of fighting and formals washed with bitterness.

No dreams left for the Hawk.

Slowly, he raised his head to look into the eye of the other. The wielder of the sword at his throat. He saw the haunted look in that eye, so changed from the smiling ones he had seen on the night of the ball.

I did this to you. I did this to all of you.

He closed his eyes one last time, as the other man pulled back the sword.

A smile tugged at his lips as he remembered that night…

A formal night of fire and dreams.


	8. Companion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW: Griffith has an erotic dream.

He let out a moan as his head fell back, white waves of hair fanning out behind him. He arched his back as he felt the other’s hands trail over his neck, his shoulders, his chest and sides.

His. His. His one, his own. No one else’s.

Mine.

He trembled as the other’s hands slid down, over his stomach and onto his thighs. Calloused fingers skimmed down the inside of them, stroking the lean muscles there. Groaning, he forced himself up on his elbows and looked down, his eyes heavy and lidded, pupils dilated.

"Are you pleased, my King?"

He suppressed another shiver at the term, spoken in the other’s voice. Half a joke, half a serious statement, he was torn between slamming his leg against his lover’s body and trembling with pleasure. He didn’t get to do either though, as the other pulled himself up and hovered over him, strong arms on either side of his head.

"You sure this is smart, doing this when you have to see your wife tomorrow?"

Snorting at the statement, he reached up with his arms and pulled the other in for a kiss, pressing their bodies together as he did so. He didn’t want to hear of his wife. What he wanted to hear was the other gasping as thrust inside him, hear him moaning with the knowledge that he was the one who brought him pleasure.

'Only I can bring you pleasure. Only me.'

With a low moan he spread his legs further, pushing a soft pillow beneath his hips. The other smirked at him playfully before moving down his body, gripping onto his thighs as he positioned himself and-

He shot up from his position at his desk, nearly tipping his chair back as he did so. His heart hammering in his chest and his pants felt tight. With a trembling hand he pushed his hair back out of his face, trying to ignore the feeling in his stomach.

A dream.

He had been king, and Guts- Guts had been…

Another tremor ran through his body and he stood, eyes wide and unblinking. He turned his head to his empty bed, looking at the crisp sheets, untouched.

Empty.

His insides churned as he remembered the last time he’d gone to bed with someone. Feeling ill he swallowed and sat back down at his desk, resting his head in his hands.

Shot another look at the bed.

Still empty of his dream’s companion.

He lowered his eyes back to the desk, staring at the wood below. He didn’t even notice his fingers were clawing at his shoulders as he suppressed the sudden emotions that were flowing through him.

He wanted a companion.

No.

He wanted Guts.

With a jolt he sat back up straight and stared at the ceiling, fingers clenching into his shoulders through the soft wool of his shirt.

No.

No no no.

I want my dream.

But which one?


	9. Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Wyald's attempted rape of Casca is referenced.

He stumbled forward, frustrated, unable to even shout. A tremor of helpless fear ran down his spine as she shouted, writhed. The demon before merely laughed, its perverted eyes raking her form.

'Don't you go popping a boner on my head, freak.'

Guts saved them.

His wrists trembled as he reached for his sword, fingers trying to clasp the hilt. His hand shuddered uncontrollably as he tried pulled it forward, only to be stopped. He looked up, through the holes in his helmet.

'One step at a time, okay? Don't worry, you'll be fighting again soon.'

Guts stopped him.

His entire form shook as the demon held him, its hideous fists crushing his wrists. His clothes, his armour, torn away to reveal it. His body, wasted, torn. Never to fight, never to stand, never to wear the crown.

Humiliated, confused, distraught, then numb.

Guts said he would fight again.

Guts lied.

He lay in the wagon, helpless. He heard them speak, him and her. Like two lovers caught in a tragedy, with he being their downfall. Pathetic. Worthless. He would leave, and she would stay, moved by her pity to protect him.

He was nothing.

A light.

He forced himself up, staring. There he was, his body, his true self. Not the miserable husk he inhabited.

He pointed. He looked.

The castle.

A young boy with white hair running toward it.

'We haven't reach the castle yet!'

He leant on his sword, pushed himself up, a cry of determination stuck forever in his throat. No voice, no strength.

A broken shell with a failing dream.

He moved.


	10. Silver

It glinted in the sun. Like a dazzling array of jewels on a nobleman’s fingers, or gems around a woman’s neck, it shone. It was like a beacon, a guiding star, the moon in the night.

The others gathered around him, young boys to old men. Their skin, their history, none of these mattered. It did not even matter if they were a woman, as proven by the female amongst their ranks. Who they were, it did not matter. They were all drawn to him, his skill, his strength, his dreams.

At the beginning of each battle, he shone, in the midst of war, he shimmered, and at the end when the enemy was defeated and his troops had their glory, he was their light, the symbol of their victory.

He was a white bird to guide them, a beacon of silver armour amongst the shadows of the world.

Always, and forever.

The Hawk of Light.


	11. Prepared

He was prepared for everything.

In battle, prepared. Strategies, tactics, logistics, all were simple things in his hands. He knew how to control an army, how to defeat an army. How to manipulate troops, both his own and those of the enemy. He was a master of the field, of the fort. The White Hawk, peasant general.

In politics, prepared. Daring intrigues and hidden plots, he had mastered them all. Assassinations in the dead of the night, poison in the cup, a burning pyre for the queen. Smiles more sinister and sweet than any noble, eyes and ears sharper than any minister. A master of the court, of subtle murder. The White Hawk, peasant noble.

Prepared, he soared above them all. Wings spread, he flew toward his castle, his dream, shining on the horizon.

Yet the fingers of corpses clung to him, bloodied faces and fearful eyes drawing him to the earth, out of the skies, out of the heavens. Heart thundering, he flew forward, white wings stained with blood, trailing death. Prepared for sacrifice, prepared for pain.

But not for this.

The fangs of a wild dog, buried deep in his heart. Claws ripping into his soul, barriers broken, walls fallen. Its huge form shadowing the castle, it eyes capturing his, its paws pinning his wings to the dirt. The glimmer on the horizon failing.

For this, he had not been prepared.


	12. Knowledge

He had a wealth of them.

Books upon books upon books, standing neatly side-by-side, tucked away against one another. Arranged by subject, then by alphabet. Books upon books upon books.

And still, Guts wondered where he found the time for them, amidst all his other duties. Plotting, courting, planning, battles. It’s not as if his friend had the time to skim, let alone sit down with one of his many thick tomes and spend hours lost in his head, exploring realities and fantasies.

But he claimed to have read every one. The novels, the epics, the histories, the trivial. Every letter on every page, read in depth and detail. Analysed and scrutinised, learnt, mastered, and finally, appreciated.

Guts often snorted to himself at the thought. Books had never been something he’d cared much for, yet he’d seen the way the other looked at them, and wondered if he’d missed something. Was still missing something.

Yet again, the only book he’d ever really read was the one the other had given him. The Kama Sutra, a book so ridiculously obscene that Guts had almost choked thinking about how the other had obtained the book, and more importantly, why.

One day he’d asked his friend why he’d has so many books. In the pale man’s room, at the strike of twelve, when the candle flickered, he’d asked.

And the other had answered.

'Like all things, knowledge, when wielded correctly, can be a powerful tool. Even more so in the hands of a king.'

Guts had cocked his head for a moment, before smirking and closing his eyes. Leaning back against his chair, he’d suppressed a sigh and looked at the ceiling.

Like everything else, it had been for his dream.

Knowledge for a dream.


	13. Denial I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 'Broken Hawk' AU. This is an alternate universe I created in which Griffith, returned to human form, loses his mind in a manner similar to Casca. This drabble is unrelated to the other Denial prompts, but is related to Outside and Diamond.

It was painful.

Guts watched as Casca sat by the fire, rubbing her temples in frustration. At her side sat the Moonchild, his hand resting on her leg. He swallowed as he looked at them. His wife, his son, both changed by-

He heard him giggle.

A shiver ran down his spine as he looked over to the wagon. Another giggle floated out, then a squeal of delight. Guts felt the bile in his throat, the rage boiling in his stomach. He could feel the hound in his head whispering to him, goading him.

'Put the armour back on. Give him what he deserves. Ignore your woman's wishes. He should die, he must die!'

Guts clenched his teeth together as he glanced over at the berserker armour. He’d removed it, he’d had to. It was the only way he could control himself. Even Schierke wouldn’t have been able to stop him when he faced-

He laughed again.

Touching the brand on his neck, Guts looked back to Casca one more time. Puck now sat on her shoulder, Farnese at her other side. The rest of his companions sat around the fire, a solemn silence in the air.

Another giggle.

Guts slammed his hand against a nearby tree before walking away, toward the wagon, toward its inhabitant. The broken creature that lay within, friend, enemy, human, monster. Schierke and the Elves had healed him as best they could, given him a voice, given him movement.

But it didn’t matter. They were all beyond healing.

Biting his lip until it bled, Guts pushed back the tattered curtain that hid the creature within. In the dark, he could just make out the tangled white hair in the corner, and the thin arms that toyed with the wooden figures on the floor.

No. No this wasn’t him. This wasn’t him.

Yet Guts couldn’t look away. He watched the figure move in the gloom, playing his games. The wooden soldiers and beasts all stood around a ‘castle’ of wooden blocks. Leading up to the first block of the castle was a pile of broken toys. A stair of wooden corpses.

His eyes darted up as the other giggled again, watching as the other’s crown of leaves and dried flowers fell over his eyes. A white hand reached to push it back, accidentally knocking the castle over.

"Noooooo," a voice moaned, a mixture of man and child. Guts bit into his tongue. It sounded like a wraith, a dead thing. A pathetic ghost clinging to the world that had forsaken it.

'Castle come back,' the voice spoke again, and the pale thing moved in the shadows, rearranging the pieces. 'Castle! Castle!' A giggle again. Guts groaned at the sound, closing his eyes.

It wasn’t him, it wasn’t…

'Guts!” The voice exclaimed suddenly. Guts's eyes shot open as the wraith moved, standing weakly, arms outstretched. 'Friend! Play! Come to my castle and play!'

Anger shot through him as the other man approached. What right did he have? After all he’d done, after what he’d put them through. After all the lies and murder, after the sacrifice. How could he become this, this thing?

No it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him.

Guts’s fist shot out before he could stop it. His hand connected with the other’s chest, knocking him backward and slamming him into the wagon’s walls. A shriek left the other, followed a pained sob.

"Guts!" Casca shouted as she entered,Schierke and Serpico at her side. The witch swiftly moved past them all, her hands trembling. Guts knew she couldn’t stand the creature, the wraith they kept, a living testament to the corruption of the human’s religion and the desecration of her peoples’ shrines and gods. Yet she lived with it, for their sake.

But Guts couldn’t, he couldn’t.

This thing would never be…

"Guts, come with me," Casca hissed, grabbing his arm and dragging him from the confines of the wagon while Serpico stood beside Schierke, holding the injured man down as it cried in pain.

"Casca-"

"No Guts!" Casca shouted, glaring up at him. In the firelight he saw the unshed tears in her eyes, glimmering and glassy. "I don’t want to hear it. Not this, not again. You know his body can’t handle it, and you swore you wouldn’t touch him anyway, so I don’t want to hear excuses.”

"But Casca-"

"Damn it Guts!" She swore. "I know what you’re going to say. After what he did, after everything he did, how can you I do it. How can I protect him knowing…knowing…" Her voice trailed off and a sob escaped her throat before she let her head fall against Guts’s chest.

"Casca…"

"I need to know Guts, I need to hear what he has to say. No matter how pathetic or weak his reasons, his excuses, I need to know. His past, his secrets, I need to know Guts, or I’ll never understand. I’ll never-"

Guts wrapped his arms around her as she started to cry, ignoring the rest of his companions as they backed away into the trees, leaving them alone. This was their burden, not his friends’, no his son’s. It was their burden. His, Casca’s, and…

A harsh cry of pain echoed throughout the camp.

He closed his eyes as he rested his head on Casca’s, his own tears buried deep within. It was more than just what she said, more than who he had been, more than what he had done.

He couldn’t accept it.

He couldn’t accept that the man that had been his greatest friend, his most hated enemy, had become…

Another shriek of pain filled the air.

This.

No.

He could never accept it.

And as more bitter bile and rage churned in his stomach as he held the woman he loved, he knew he never would.

So instead, he accepted denial.


	14. Denial II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unrelated to the other Denial stories.

No.

He couldn’t do this.

As he swung his sword he knew he couldn’t. That this was all a nightmare, a bad dream. The side effects of the poison from the night before, a night terror induced by the drug. He wouldn’t do this, he wouldn’t leave him.

You told me I wasn’t a terrible person!’

His throat tightened and his stomach dropped as he heard it break. He watched the steel of his broken sword fall uselessly into the snow as the other’s sword made contact.

Defeated.

No.

'You swore you'd never leave me!'

His knees gave way beneath him as he fell alongside his sword, the damp cold soaking in through his clothes, chilling his flesh as his heart went numb.

For a moment, it ceased to beat altogether.

No.

'You were mine…'

As his mind drained of all thoughts, he stared at the snow, listening as Guts’ footsteps faded into the distance.

No.


	15. Denial III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unrelated to the other Denial stories. TW: fairly gory content

His mind was numb.

Blood ran in rivers all around him, staining the trampled earth. The trees around him charred and reduced to debris, their own limbs mingled with the bodies of others. Humans, elves, witches, trees, all tangled together in an ocean of red.

His eyes darted out over the battlefield, over the corpses.

Faces frozen in pain and horror littered the ruined land, entrails spread around them like twisted decorations. As if the scene was something to celebrate. As if this violence and death meant something.

His stomach churned as he looked away from the nameless dead and to the ones he knew. The bloodied robes of a little witch, the scattered limbs of the wind warrior, the empty eyes of the young hero.

The armoured swordsman and the lost woman, the lovers.

His throat burned with bile as he looked at their chests, empty cavities where their hearts had once been, torn out by the white hawk king.

'No.'

He lifted his head and looked at the sky, the red glow of sunset reflecting off the pooling blood. Red. Red everywhere.

'It's only a nightmare Puck, that's all. It's only a nightmare.'

One he would never wake up from.


	16. Wind

It started as naught more than a breeze.

A soft wind, tugging at loose leaves, dancing with debris, yet it was the beginning. It began the turn of the wheel, the flow of the river, the slide of the rocks.

But more, it was the wind of flight. The wind that would set creatures soaring, wings spread and flying toward the glow on the horizon. And among those creatures, flew a hawk.

On the wind he flew, white feathers shining in the light, sharp eyes cowing all others that flew in his path. He flew through the sky, the air itself sending him higher and higher, toward the glimmer of silver towers.

And then it stopped.

And funneled down.

And the hawk fell, its wings flapping in fear, in horror. The winds of fate dragged him down, and with it, the hands of corpses and the jaws of a hound dragged as well. It pulled him and slammed him against the earth, broke his wings, spilt his blood.

Then the wind became a storm.

Trapped in its embrace, broken, bloody, the wind whispered to the hawk. A choice, it said, though there was none. A sacrifice, it demanded.

So the hawk gave it one.

And in a great flurry the wind picked him up again and flew him back to his shining towers, masking the blood behind him with the scent of spring air.

Such a sweet scent for the bitter winds of fate.


	17. Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Random AU. Griffith captures Guts and his friends. It's a bit odd.

’Give the order, my king, and it shall be done.’

And it would be done. Two words, maybe less, and their heads would be severed. A few more perhaps, and they’d be subject to torture. More than that, and he could specify the type, the device, the when and the where.

All he had to do was give the order.

Yet he did not. Instead, he stood, and circled. Like a hawk looking down on its prey, waiting, wondering if the time was right to strike.

He took in their appearances. All of them. The young street lad, the little witch. Two noblemen, a noblewoman, and her aide, the latter two both shimmering with magic. Two small Elves in cages, and the unnatural child.

And them.

A woman, eyes deep and black, filled with an uncountable amount of emotions though the most prominent were hate, fear, and sorrow. Her dark skin was covered in fresh wounds and old scars, blood trailing down her limbs. Her armour was worn and tarnished, her clothes ripped, her black hair cut like a wildwoman’s. Her fingers bled from where she had gripped her sword.

She had not let it go until she had been knocked unconscious, and even then it had been a struggle to pull it free.

As he walked past he saw blood on her lips, from where teeth had pierced flesh.

He moved on.

And there he was. Armour removed, sword shattered into a thousand pieces. One eye forever closed, scarred over with time and memories. Black hair streaked with white, body more wound than flesh.

His single eye ablaze with rage hotter than the sun, hotter than hell.

'My king, if you would give the order…'

The noble’s voice went unheard.

Instead, the king watched the scarred one. Watched the heat in his eyes as it flooded the room, flooded the castle. He watched the creatures within turn to dust, watched them burn. He watched as the man ripped his wings from his back and slit his throat with the broken remains of his crown.

And he smiled, softly, and looked away.

'You will regret this.'

He looked to the child.

'You will break Griffith.'

The child of the moon.

'You already know this.'

The child of many fates. Of the dog, of the hawk, of the woman. The child within him.

'Yes, I do know.'

Then he spun on his heel and turned back to his throne, climbing the short steps to it with ease.

'Lock them in the dungeons, separate cells, apostle guards. Remove all means of communication and magic. This is my order.'

'But sire, they are traitors to the cro-'

'Good sir, do you question the king?'

The noble was silent, and the prisoners removed. Following them, the nobles, the clergy, apostles, the servants. All left the throne room except the king.

And he bowed his head.

He had seen the death of his dream, yet he could not escape it.

For though he controlled all beings within reality and beyond, fate controlled him.

And he obeyed its orders.


	18. Thanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ending: Griffith reverts to his mortal form and is killed.

Gratitude.

It was a strange thing, he thought, to give thanks in his final moments. After all, there were not many he had to give true thanks too. From the dirt to the heavens, he had crawled, hiding his battered form beneath white wings.

Yet, he found that, in the end, there were those he could thank.

He could thank his soldiers, old and new. Though many clung to him for their own reasons, they had remained loyal to the last. They had fought for his dream, they had died for his dream, both mortals and monsters. They had sacrificed their lives for him, in more ways than one, in battle, in ceremony.

To them, he gave thanks.

And to them, he said sorry.

He could give thanks to a woman, a loyal woman he betrayed. Who, through the brightest and darkest moments of her early life believed in him, who loved him, who fought for him. Who, when she could not be is woman, was his sword, his shield. Who saw and accepted his humanity, even when he himself could not. The woman who gave her body, her mind, her child, for his dream.

To her, he gave thanks.

And to her, he said sorry.

He could give thanks to a man, a wild creature who fought for him, and fought against him. Who acted as his weapon, but also as his pillar, his support. Who, despite his unwillingness to join him, became his closest friend and ally, and, in the end, stole his heart. Who, brought upon his downfall, then saved him, then was sacrificed for him.

And then, who sought his dark form out and tore him down.

To him, he gave thanks.

And to him, he said sorry.

Then, said thanks again, for it was he who returned him to his true self, and though that form was weaker, it was better to be himself and have failed than to be false and have won.

And finally, as he felt his form fading, his soul dying, he smiled and gave one final show of gratitude.

To a young boy on the streets, dreaming of a castle. To a young man in the field, fighting battles with his soldiers. To an adult in the courtroom, outwitting all the nobles.

To the hawk king.

To himself.

Thank you.

And sorry.


	19. Look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: References to self-harm and non-con/dub-con

There were thousands of eyes. They were watching and observing. Glancing, peering, seeking. Glaring in anger, shining in sorrow, sparkling with joy. They saw sun and snow, human and monster, sky and surf.

And yet, they did not see him.

They did not see the shudder of his limbs, the darkness beneath his eyes. They did not see the quivering of his lips, nor his tired expressions. They did not see his weariness, his illness.

They did not see.

They did not see the tearing of his flesh, the thick rivulets of blood streaming down his arms. They did not see the frantic washing, the crazed desire to be clean. They did not see what came before, the wrinkled hands, the legs, the body, covering him, mounting him, abusing him.

They did not see.

They did not see his weakness.

They did not see his guilt.

They did not see his heart.

They did not want to see him.

And so, they never did.

They never looked.

So then he broke, and only then did they all see.

Just when he wished they wouldn’t look.


	20. Summer

There were battles.

They were fierce, filled with the clashing of swords, the sliding of steel. There was blood, and splintered shields, and the shrieking sound of ended lives. Splayed limbs, lost limbs, broken limbs. The entrails of the young and old, swirled together in a sacrifice, for the promise of peace. Heads mounted on pikes, to warn, flags tied to posts, to encourage. A comrade lost, a comrade gained.

Yes, there were battles.

There were plots.

They were dark, filled with the jealousy of nobles, the bitterness of rulers. There was poison, and knives, and the hushed whisper of shocking secrets. Silent nights, quiet nights, deadly nights. The flames of a fire burning in the night, an end to the noble ones who stood in the way of change. Piercing glares and smiles, for death, hands stopping a fall, for marriage. An ally lost, an ally gained.

Yes, there were plots.

There were dreams.

They were grand, filled with the shimmer of towers, the glitter of crowns. There were smiles, and laughs, and the drunken ballads of friendship and comradery. Bright times, happy times, joyous times. The silver of glowing armour in the sun, a beacon to all the creatures of the earth. A bonfire in the night, for glory, a ball in the eve, for success. A goal for all, a goal for one.

Yes, there were dreams.

There was love, and betrayal, and memories dredged up from the darkest of places. There were tears, and anger, and the dreaded shadow of fear. There was failure, and monsters, and the crippled form of a hawk.

And then there was the end.

An eclipse to mark the end of their summer.

The last summer of their lives.


	21. Transformation

There is only so much one can endure.

A childhood on the streets, dirt, rats, bones protruding, hands touching, the sweat and the stench of hell. Thin limbs, scratched flesh, sickly skin, but eyes, so bright, so true.

Change for a castle.

There is only so much one can endure.

The haunting shrieks of battle, men bathed in blood, tattered capes and tarnished steel burning in the sun. Swinging, blocking, breaking, a deadly dance of life and death, a single warrior of white.

Change for a general.

There is only so much one can endure.

A lifeless form splayed out on the earth, a knight gripped in his fingers, eyes closed in sleeping peace. Guilt, growing, clawing, shredding, until he had no choice. A night with a monster for a knight never-to-be. Hands touching, groping, shuddering, then a second bath of blood.

Change for a price.

There is only so much one can endure.

A friendship formed from antagonism, swords, teeth, fists, then years of bloodying their hands and flesh for one another. A dance, an inferno, a battle in the snow. The pebble that started an avalanche.

Change for a heart.

A dungeon hidden in the depths of a tower, burning, whipping, tearing, cutting, torture at the hands of a gremlin. Voices, demons, calling, whispering, worshipping. A hand, a face, a traitor, a friend. 

Saved.

Crippled.

Humiliated.

Ruined.

Dreamless.

The sun changed.

The voices louder, with forms, and faces. Creatures of hell rising, memories chasing, stalking, frightening. A silver castle, a stair of corpses. A chance, a choice.

A sacrifice.

Change for a dream.

But not his final transformation.


	22. Tremble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: non-con/dub-con

He was a symbol of strength. Determination and ambition, grace and elegance. A deadly warrior, a handsome courtier, and beacon of hope to his men.

Yet there was more, hidden within the depths of eyes where no one would ever look, for fear of being burnt by what lay inside.

And what lay inside was frightening indeed.

Large hands lay inside, touching, stroking, caressing. Making a mockery of the act of sensual affection. Thick fingers gripping down, smoothing across a pale chest, skimming across his stomach and touching his thighs. The scent of sweat and sex filled the room as he was mounted like a dog and rutted into, was turned over and stroked softly like a lover, was pushed into the pillows and penetrated over and over.

And all the while his face betrayed nothing, moans of pain disguised as ones of pleasure, knuckles turned white from gripping the sheets, teeth tearing tongue as his own body was torn, blood seeping down both lips and legs. His stomach churned with horror and humiliation as his throat burnt with bile, but even through it all, he did not shed tears.

Yet there was no denial that he shook. His body shivered with sickness and pain, shuddering with unvoiced anger and grief. Tremors ran through his body, form vibrating as he fell into shock.

Still, all but two were blind to it. The shivering, the shuddering. All but the loyal woman and his raiding commander were blind. They saw only the beacon in the sky, not the shaky pillars that held it.

They did not see him tremble.

And yet, one day they would.

But it would be too late.


	23. Sunset

It was not simply sunset.

It was the momentary death of light itself, shrouded in the pale gauze of the moon. It was the temporary threat of the end, a time when the layers between all realities were not segregated by the burning barriers of the sun’s flame. It was when hell and heaven danced, when the astral courted the corporeal.

It was when sacrifices were made.

It was when friendships were torn asunder, lovers wretched apart, when the most distressing and vile of acts where committed. It was when the most broken of men became gods, when the sharpest of minds were manipulated, when all that was good and all that was evil merged into one.

It was when men died with unvoiced confessions, when they were torn apart, when they were lured by the lips of a monster. When they were ripped and shredded, and feasted upon.

It was when hands were too weak, when minds were too weary, when the voices of one’s inner child spoke louder than the screams of the rational, when the words of friends who abandoned you fueled the hardest of decisions.

It was when guilt and innocence became one.

It was when friend and enemy became one.

It was when white and black became grey.

It was not simply sunset.

It was the Eclipse.


	24. Mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Canon attempted suicide.

He was chasing a figure.

A boy, white hair streaming behind him, a smile on his face. Him, it was him, or a part of him. Did it exist, did it ever exist? That smile…

Still he chased it.

He chased it with the reins clenched between his teeth, eyes fixed on the glow surrounding the running boy, on the castle before him. He had to go, he had to reach it.

He didn’t have a choice. If he stayed, he’d be…

He’d be abandoned again.

Then the figure was gone, and he was in the air. Not flying, but thrown, a crippled leaf on the wind.

His mind wandered.

A woman, Casca. Tending him, mending him as best she could. A boy, not him, a strange child. Guts, she called him. He wasn’t his, he knew deep down. It was the other’s child, yet it stayed with them, chasing the dog.

The picture of a peaceful family.

Tranquility…

The Behelit stared at him.

His mind came back. No longer running, no longer wandering. Trapped. His arm was broken. There was nothing, nothing left for him. He laughed, bitter and painful and crazed.

He saw the rock.

He slit his throat.

He lived.

He wept, tears mixing with blood as he tried to scream, but couldn’t. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t even end his life.

He couldn’t…

He couldn’t…

The Behelit called to him.

He lifted it, the voices of monsters and demons swirling through his mind. It would always return to him. It would summon angels.

It was the Egg of a King.

The moon began to cover the sun.

A voice called.

He turned.

'Griffith!'

No. Stay back. Stay back. Don’t come closer.

If you touch me now…

If you grasp my shoulder…

I’ll never again…

I’ll never again!!

Guts gripped his shoulder. His eyes looked into his, locking them with his gaze. He couldn’t see anything but him, couldn’t feel anything but his hands on his shoulders.

The Behelit screamed.

His descent into madness was complete.


	25. Thousand

There were thousands of corpses.

They crawled before him, pushing one another down in an attempt to reach him. Some stood and walked, their decaying forms fetid and falling apart. Some stumbled and fell, trampled underfoot by those who didn’t.

And they were crying.

'Please, take us to the castle!'

'Take us there please!'

'We want to come with you!'

'Please!

He let out a shriek as one grabbed him. A boy, around his age, a wooden doll in his hand.

'Please let me come with you! I want to be a knight, one that can fight beside you!'

But he couldn’t take him. He couldn’t take any of them. Not a single corpse could come with him to his castle.

He could not carry the burden of the dead.

But he tried.

As the corpses crawled he dragged them, tugged them, carried them to his castle in the sky. Slowly he piled them at its foot, pulling more up with him. His pale fingers were covered with rotting flesh and blood, but he did not stop, climbing further up the castle to his dream.

He could not apologise. He could not be sorry.

Too many had died for him to surrender.

Too many had…

'Griffith!'

The corpses were gone. The stairs were gone. The castle was gone.

There was only him.

And just like before he pushed him. His face, his eyes, his form, his presence. It pushed him off the edge of sanity and into the very depths of madness. Just like on the snowy hill, just like at the lake.

Among thousands of comrades…

and tens of thousands of enemies…

Only you…

Only you…

Only you…

I sacrifice…


	26. Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 'Broken Hawk' AU. Related to Denial I and Diamond.

Casca took him outside.

They hadn’t bothered to before. He had always preferred to stay in the wagon, curled up in the corner playing with his dolls, mumbling and giggling to himself, occasionally breaking out into panicked screams. But the day was fine and after a few subtle suggestions from Schierke and Farnese, coupled with a blunt ‘he smells like stale wagon shit’ from Isidro, they had decided it was time for him to brave the outside world.

So Casca took him outside, and watched him.

It was strange and unsettling, watching the man act like this. He had saved her, inspired her, worried her, betrayed her, and yet through all that there had always been a glimpse of the him she knew. Whether it was his ambition, his concealed emotions and guilt, his obsession with Guts, there had always been something she’d recognised.

Now, aside from his babbling about castles, there was nothing.

Her brows furrowed as she observed him playing, splashing in the water with the moonchild. It was clear he was having difficulty, his half-lame form wobbling and falling constantly, until he didn’t have the strength to do anything more than half-heartedly scoop water and toss it around. Sometimes he let it trickle through his fingers and down his wrists, going still and blank as the moonchild sat opposite him in the small stream.

Briefly, Casca turned her head. She could feel her eyes burning, her heart tightening in her chest. This was wrong. This was sick, and twisted. She didn’t know what to feel, looking at him. She hated and loved him, she wanted to hurt him, yet she pitied him all the same. She wanted to see him scream and see him smile.

She wanted the old him back, her friend. She didn’t love him anymore, but that didn’t change the fact she had cared about him. Yet she also wanted to destroy the man who had hurt her, broken her, made her become like…

Like he was now.

She buried her head in her hands and she let out a harsh sob, biting her lip until it bled. She couldn’t have her happiness, she couldn’t quell her anger. Instead she had this. She couldn’t love him, she couldn’t hate him, she couldn’t even get answers.

'Casca?'

Her head snapped up as she looked at him, scrubbing tears and blood away from her face. He had moved closer, head tilted to the side, water dripping from his hair and limbs.

'Why are you sad Casca? Did you want to play too?' He pointed at himself then over at the moonchild. 'You can play if you want. I'm a king, and he's my soldier. You can be my soldier too!'

'I'm alright.' Casca took a deep breath before reaching out and giving him a gentle push. “Go on, go play, and make sure to wash as w-'

She broke off when he started shrieking. She stood hurriedly as he fell backward, crawling through the water, flailing wildly and gasping, crying, screaming.

'I'm sorry! I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! I didn't mean to! I just wanted to get to the castle! I'm sorry!'

She didn’t even bother kicking off her boots as she ran out to him, glancing at the moonchild as the boy stepped out of the pool and away from the crazed man within it. Assured her son was safe, she looked back down at the other, reaching out and grasping his shoulders.

'No! No! No no no no no! I can't take you with me! I can't take you to the castle! I can't! I ca-!' He broke out into a series of coughs, tears running down his cheeks as he fought against Casca's grip. She refused to let him go though.

'Calm down!' She spoke as firmly as she could without frightening him further, though the look in his eyes told him that he was still scared. 'What's wrong? Tell me!'

'Blood! Blood! You're dead and I can't take you with me! You're dead! You're dead and I can't- I can't be sorry but- No! No no no no!' He continued to flail as Casca glanced down at her right hand, cursing as she quickly removed it from the man and dipped it in the water, washing away the traces of the blood from her torn lip.

'Look! See, no blood! I'm alive, I'm fi…' She trailed off, swallowing thickly. Her eyes burnt again. She was as far from fine as she could possibly be, but she couldn't say that. Not to this, not to him.

She wondered briefly if it would trigger his memories, if saying so would remind him further of what he’d done, but she didn’t.

She wanted an apology and she wanted his regret, but that meant nothing if she didn’t understand why.

And from what she had seen, she wouldn’t get that final wish while he was in this state. So she didn’t push him.

'Shush, see, it's okay. It's just me, and you, and the moonchild. We're all alive, you see. It's all going to be okay. It's all going to be okay…'

She watched as his eyes calmed, the frenzied look dulling back down to childish obliviousness. A smile lit up his features and he let out a feeble laugh.

"Can I go back to my castle now?’

'Yes, yes I think it's time we went back inside.'

With that, she helped him stand and wrapped him and the moonchild in cloth, and took them both back to the camp. The moonchild stood by the fire as she helped the other into the wagon, before turning and gesturing to Serpico. The man gave her a strange look before ducking inside to help the other man dress.

Casca watched him go before turning to the moonchild and giving him a little push toward the wagon, smiling.

'You go too okay? Serpico will help you get dressed.' With that, the boy headed off, leaving Casca on her own. She stood silently for a moment, before walking back to the pool and sinking down on the rocks beside it, once again burying her face in her hands.

"I think that’s enough outside time for him." She’d meant for it to sound like a laugh, but a weary sob came out instead. Shaking her head she pressed her hands against her eyes and cried.

She couldn’t love him, she couldn’t hate him.

She couldn’t even take him outside.


	27. Winter

The wreckage of a broken man’s sacrifice littered the lake, blood and sunset dying the water red. Limbs floated on the surface before sinking, like leaves torn from the branches of trees. Entrails clung to the mud of the lake’s bottom, dancing like the reeds in the shallows.

And then, as night fell, a woman wept and a man howled, and the ghosts of the dead crawled through the water.

Then night ended, and the holy soldiers came.

They observed the water, thick with blood and the gruesome forms of decaying flesh, half-eaten and rotting. They shared looks of horror and disgust, and then spoke of their omens and prophesies.

And then they left the lake.

They left the last memento of summer and rode through autumn. Through its chaos and its rage, and through the howls of the blackswordsman searching for revenge, and for his lover. They rode through its blood and its shadows, and its biting winds and thick fogs.

The holy soldiers rode, and died in autumn, but the blackswordsman did not. Instead he bathed himself in blood like the hawk and howled until he saw his foe, the slayer of summer. He fought until he saw his rebirth.

And then he froze.

For he was like the summer, perfect and glowing, a living memoir of a time long gone. Like a place of green fields and dusty battles, of castles and battlements and bonfires in the night. He was like the burning sun, his light a reminder of what was gone.

But he was not the summer.

He was the cold, the bitter snow of abandonment and loneliness, of betrayal. He was the ice and the killing winds of fate, blown by wings of white and black. The summer in him was dead, murdered by a pebble, a pebble that caused an avalanche.

He had been in winter before summer had even ended.

He had been murdered by its cold.

And then he had come back as the embodiment of it, his heart emptied of summer.

But deep within, in the coldest reaches of his heart, a single sprout grew, a pale flower clinging to the ice.

The fragile promise of spring.

If only it could come to pass.


	28. Diamond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 'Broken Hawk' AU. Related to Denial I and Outside.

Pretty.

It was so very pretty.

He smiled brightly as it sparkled, pale streaks of sun shining weakly through the cracks in the wagon’s wood. He rolled it around in his palm, feeling the cut edges, the smooth surfaces, the small ring attached to the top.

"Ehehehehe, so pretty!" He giggled, crawling across the wagon floor to where a small coil of thin rope sat. "Pretty crown for a king! For the hawk king!"

He let out another giggle before threading the thin rope through the ring at the top of the gem, then tying it around his head. The stone hung down in front of his eyes, sitting on the bridge of his nose as the rope sagged under its weight.

"Long live the king!" He said gruffly, holding up one of his special soldiers. The wooden doll was painted in dull colours, with a gruff face and a thick piece of bark attached to his back.

Guts.

His Guts.

"Long live the king with his crown!" He repeated, making his voice higher as he grabbed another doll, his only female one. Giggling, he continued playing, grabbing more of his dolls, parading them around the castle, his castle, only stopping to adjust his crown.

The last glimmer of sunlight faded as night fell, and still he played, sometimes crossing his eyes to look at the gem hanging between them. He giggled and laughed and cheered until his voice grew hoarse.

He was king, he had his soldiers, he had his castle and his kingdom.

All was good.

Then he heard the voices.

'Sacrifice sacrifice sacrifice.'

'You knew this was the road you walked. One of blood and corpses, with the castle at the end.'

'So beautiful little Gri-ah. Spread your legs wider, and I'll double the coin you receive.'

'Take us to the castle! Take us to the castle!'

'Goodbye.'

'No!” He shrieked, curling into himself, trembling fingers clutching at his hair and crown. “No no no no no no! Stop, I'm sorry, stop it stop it stop it. I just wanted- I just wanted to be- to be- stop!'

There was a woman, and he was holding her down and-

"No!"

There was a man, and he was walking away and-

"No!"

There were hands clutching and grabbing him, decaying flesh tearing his clothes from his body and turning into a hideous man and-

"No!"

He pulled off his crown and held it to his chest as he screamed, throat raw and voice rasping. He ignored the hurried footsteps as people entered the wagon, keening as he clawed at his chest, gem still in his grasp.

"Serpico restrain him!" A young girl’s voice commanded. He let out a shriek as someone grabbed him, pulling his hands away from his chest and holding him still. "Evarella, go tell the others he’s doing it again. Quickly!"

He let out another cry as his eyes focused and he saw the little green witch in front of him, reaching out. His voice caught in his throat as her hand turned to decay and rot, the tips of her fingers touching his chest.

"No!" He cried one final time, before suddenly collapsing into darkness.

…

"I wish we could find a permanent solution for that," Serpico murmured, gently placing the other man on the pallet in the corner and covering him with blankets. He peered down at the gaunt creature through slitted eyes, before shaking his head.

"He is too tainted by darkness for my magic to work properly," Schierke shook her head, adjusting her hat. "I doubt even the King of the Elves himself could heal him. His od is just…too black, washed in too much blood."

"So this is the price he pays," Serpico sighed, before furrowing his eyebrows. "What’s this?" His sharp eyes caught sight of a small flash in the moonlight. He reached down and tugged open one of the unconscious man’s hands. His fingers closed around a gem. He raised it back up into a sliver and moonlight and frowned.

"A diamond," Schierke mirrored his frown. "It must be Farnese’s, though I thought she’d left all her noble trinkets behind."

"A gift from Roderick then," Serpico said, before pocketing it. He looked back down at the pale man. "I wonder if it set him off."

Schierke merely shrugged, turning away and beckoning for Serpico to follow her. “Best leave him to rest, even if he can’t escape from his dreams”. Serpico spared the man a backward glance before ducking out after Schierke, touching the gem in his pocket.

"Like the centrepiece of a crown," he whispered, ignoring the sudden shiver up his spine as the man in the wagon let out a weak moan.

Serpico wondered what was chasing him in his head.

Then realised it was better if he never knew.


	29. Letters

"What’s this?” Guts frowned as he picked up the unopened envelope sitting on his friend’s desk, raising an eyebrow as the scent of perfume wafted through the air. He stuck out his tongue a little before putting the envelope back down.

"Oh, that." The other man came to stand beside him, tugging his tunic over his head. "It’s uh, a paper gift from a noblewoman. One of several."

"A…gift?" Guts frowned, picking the letter back up and twirling it in his fingers. "She’s a noblewoman, right? She couldn’t afford anything better than a scrap of paper for the Hawk General?" He grimaced again as the thick smell of the letter hit him, and he put the paper back of the desk. It was then he noticed several others, laying about the desk, all unopened.

He reached out and grabbed another one, analysing the handwriting. While the style was similar, there were distinct differences that even he could notice. Guts wasn’t a reader, in fact he barely knew how, but identifying different types of lettering was rather different from actually reading it. He breathed deeply and sighed in relief. There was no perfume.

His eyes scanned the desk for more, observing the differences in font, the scents, and the use of coloured inks. Some were flowery, others having a less feminine elegance to them, and some were rather bland.

"Paper gifts huh?" Guts smirked, tossing his handful of envelopes back on the desk and sitting down on the chair, slumping forward with his elbows resting on his knees. "Is that a cryptic way of saying love letters?" He watched as the other sat on the edge of his bed, chuckling softly.

"Well, yes, to put it bluntly."

"Hah, but why’re the unopened?"

"Well I can’t very well accept them now, can I?" The man gave Guts a skeptical look, before shaking his head. "Think of the scandal. And besides, there is another that has my attention."

For a moment Guts sat in shock, eyes comically wide. While he’d never considered the other as heartless, he’d also never considered him the type to feel such affection for another either. Briefly, his mind wandered, thinking of all the possibilities. The other didn’t speak to women much, aside from Casca, a few faceless noblewomen, and the princess.

Charlotte.

It all clicked into place.

"For your dream eh?" Guts smiled slightly, moving to stand. He watched as the other nodded before following him, stretching his back slightly as he did so. "Well, I suppose you’d treat her well."

"I have a way with nobles." The other replied, smirking as he walked over to the door and opened it. Guts grinned back at him, taking a step before pausing. His eyes darted over to a final envelope, not placed on the desk like all the others, but between two books. Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed it.

He heard the other step away from the door, but ignored him in favour of analysing the handwriting. It was familiar, cursive yet not ridiculously fancy. Elegant in its simplicity, simple in its elegance.

"That one’s not for me." Guts flinched as he heard his friend’s voice. He looked up. The man was standing a little close to him, the door shut once more. "I was asked to deliver it, for a friend, but I fear I already know the receiver would not return the writer’s feelings."

"Eh, that’s…unfortunate." Guts trailed off before putting the letter back, suddenly feeling awkward. The familiar handwriting still irritated him, an unsolved mystery lurking in the back of his head. "Well, ah, I suppose its destined for the fire then?"

"Hm, I suppose," the other murmured, before opening the door again. "Goodnight Guts. Do try to rest. We’ll be in the presence of the court tomorrow." Guts snorted as the other laughed. "Do try not to attack anyone this time."

"Snotty bastards," Guts growled, before smiling at his friend. "Goodnight then. Don’t stay up too late burning letters."

"I’ll try." Guts let out a low laugh before walking out the door, giving his friend one final salute over his shoulder as he headed back to his room.

…

As Guts left, the other man drew back into his room and frowned. With a sidelong glance at the letters on his desk, he returned to his shelf and grabbed the hidden one. His hands trembled slightly as he held it, the paper shaking in his grip.

With a sudden hiss he crushed it in his fist then threw it in the fire, a mixture of satisfaction and sorrow burning his his stomach. Satisfaction at watching such a heartfelt weakness burn, but sorrow at knowing…

Knowing that he’d write it again.

'The paper gifts of fools,” he murmured before laughing wearily. Standing he moved to his desk, looking down at the other letters. He shook his head.

"Yes, the gifts of fools indeed."

With a heavy heart, he staunched the candles.

Better to drown such love in darkness than ever let it see the light.


	30. Promise

I didn’t make that promise.

'When you're king, I'll be a knight at your side!'

'He's going to take us all higher, that man. Right up to the castle.'

'We're all one step closer to the top now.'

'Haha, we'll show those nobles what us peasants can do eh?'

'He's going to take us to the palace he is. Definitely.'

I didn’t make that promise.

I never said I would.

And I can’t, I just can’t. I can’t take you there. I can’t carry you all, I can’t do it. I can barely carry the living…

How could I carry the dead?

Please just let me go, just rest. I didn’t mean to kill you, kill your dreams. I just can’t carry on with this. Your words, your hands, your eyes, dead, glassy. You’re parasites and I can’t…I can’t…

I can’t be your host.

My wings won’t hold if you keep hanging on, and I can’t let myself fall.

I can’t let it all go to waste.

I can’t fail, I can’t fail.

I never promised…

I never promised…

But I tried.

I’m still trying. To hide this guilt behind a façade and drag you with me, even if I can’t take you all the way.

I have to let you go at the stairs.

I can’t take you higher.

I never promised I would.

But I never wanted to kill you either.

So I won’t let your deaths go to waste.

And I’ll try to keep the promise I never made.

So please…

Just let me go.


	31. Simple

He was rage, pure and utter madness. He was violence, the swinging of swords, the tearing of flesh, the spurting of blood. He was crushed skulls and broken bones, scattered entrails and bulging eyes.

He was the screams and cries of battle.

He was reckless, charging into war with only the sword on his back. He was wild, he was untamed, he was stronger than any soldier, more steadfast and stubborn than any force before him.

He was the scars on one’s body, the sparks from one’s swords.

He was cruel, he was brutal, he was a howling beast in the dark.

Yet he was more.

There was goodness in him, love for his friends, love for his lover, love for the companion who had betrayed him. It was hidden beneath coarse flesh and deep wounds, and wrapped in bitter memories and the pains of life, but it was there and it festered.

He was a beast, yet he wept, and he hurt, and he loved.

It was as simple as that.

She was loyalty, a strong and brave heart. She was hard work, the bleeding grip on a sword, the steel of undeterred eyes, the fierce determination of the heart. She was the cornered prey turned predator, baring her fangs and destroying her foes.

She was the raised fist and the rallying cry.

She was love, unwavering dedication as she supported her allies. She was emotion, and she was caring, the own clothes on her back the bandage for others’ wounds. She was intelligent, a strategist, a warrior, a lover.

She was the sword at you side, the woman at your back.

She was beautiful, she was fierce, she was the faithful commander.

Yet she was more.

She was jealous, and she was torn. She was the targeted, the abused, the sacrificed. She loved two men, and was broken and hurt by both. She was lost in sweet oblivion, hiding in false light while falling through darkness. She was insanity and the glimpses of memory, too horrific to contemplate.

She was a warrior, yet she loved, she broke, and she lost herself.

It was as simple as that.

Then there was him.

He was ambition, the wings of a hawk. He was motivation, pushing himself beyond where any man of his stature had gone. He was impossible, proud and unrelenting. He was the glimmer on the horizon, the silver shine of hope, the beacon of armour.

He was the sun glinting off the castle’s towers.

He was cunning, manipulative and slier than any serpent. He was intrigue, a swordsman sent into the dark, poison in his cup, a bonfire in the night. A pyre for the queen. He was charisma, wonderful and terrible, with the sharp piercing gaze of predatory birds and and the cold qualities of ice.

He was the smile of a child, the knife in the night.

He was ambitious, he was manipulative, he was the white hawk flying in the skies.

Yet he was more.

He was weakness and obsession. He was emotionally fragile and faltering, a child’s eyes haunted by corpses, a child’s feet crawling over the dead. A child’s soul climbing the rotting stairs. He was falling and failing, wings clipped and crushed by pebbles. He was suffering, he was suicide. He was white feathers dyed black with blood

He was a demon, yet he was tortured, and shattered, and ruined.

And it was as simple as that.

Yes, they were all as simple as that.


	32. Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The alternate title of this chapter is 'know all your happiness is a lie.'

”Oi! Griffith!”

Griffith turned at the sound of the voice, watching as two figures climbed up the hill behind him. His lips twitched into a smirk as he turned away from them again, looking out over the horizon.

He remained that way, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he heard the two behind him draw closer. His smirk grew wider as he heard them bickering, one voice hushed, the other’s voice deep and loud.

"We wouldn’t be late if it weren’t for you," the softer voice growled, its tone a mixture of irritation and affection.

"Quit your whinging, he doesn’t mind," the other responded casually. "Besides, he looks like he’s enjoying the scenery."

"Ugh, you’re impossible. You haven’t even got a good excuse for making us late."

"Well I do actually, and its an excuse you didn’t mind when we were fuc-"

"It’s a wonderful day, isn’t it?" Griffith interrupted, finally turning back around to face the other two. His arms remained crossed in front of his chest as he tilted his head and smiled, acting as if he hadn’t heard their conversation. "Don’t you agree, Guts, Casca?"

"I’m so sorry Griffith, this big lughead decided he wanted to do something last minute and I-"

"It’s fine, Casca," Griffith shook his head. "But I think I’d rather steer this conversation clear of your bedroom activities." Casca’s face flushed slightly as he spoke and she promptly turned and gave Guts a hard punch in the arm.

"Ow! Damn it Casca!" Guts grumbled, shooting the woman a glare before turning to face Griffith, a hint of worry in his eyes. Griffith simply shrugged, smile still intact. As much as he disliked hearing about the others’ love life, he managed. He had his kingdom, he had his crown, he had Guts’ friendship.

As possessive as he could be, he knew this was for the best. Let the two lovers be, and let him secure his kingdom for generations to come, the throne held by children bearing the blood of the White Hawk King.

Yes, he let it be.

Even if the shade of jealousy and obsession in his mind protested otherwise.

"So, did you bring the food?" Guts asked suddenly, snapping Griffith out of his thoughts. He stifled a laugh as Casca whacked Guts’ arm again before nodding, pointing to a basket sitting on the grass behind him.

"It’s all baked by Charlotte," he stated, seating himself on the grass beside it. "When she heard I was going out, she insisted on making something." Guts plunked himself down on the grass as Casca made herself comfortable. Griffith smiled as Guts placed his sword beside him. Even on a simple picnic, he carried it with him.

"Well, I suppose she’d want you to be well fed on your only day off since your coronation," Casca pointed out, her fingers twitching as Guts reached past her and opened the basket, whistling at the food inside. "You should really rest more often. Your ministers are perfectly capable men. You wouldn’t have appointed them otherwise."

"My kingdom is my dream Casca, and I cannot bear to be parted from it," Griffith replied simply, leaning back and ignoring the food. "Besides, it hasn’t been that long since I was crowned."

"It’s been five years Griffith!" Casca exclaimed. Griffith merely smiled, shrugging his shoulders as he looked over at Guts. The other man was watching him with concerned eyes again, though he could barely pay attention to them, too amused by the sight of Guts’ cheeks filled with food.

Casca glanced over at Guts and rolled her eyes, before resting her face in the palm of her hand. Guts swallowed and raised an eyebrow at both of them.

"You two’ve got no right to look at me like that. I’m not the one ignoring Charlotte’s cooking."

"And what’s so good about that?" Casca asked, eyes narrowing. Guts grinned cockily as he picked up another piece of cake.

"Doesn’t taste like ass," he replied, suddenly jumping back to avoid Casca’s fist. Griffith laughed lightly, holding his stomach as the woman shot to her feet and began running after Guts, who simply continued to sidestep her half-hearted attacks. In reality, Griffith knew Casca was a talented cook, but he also knew the woman had not baked a successful cake in her life.

"Quit dodging me damn it!" Casca swore, before suddenly kicking out and slamming her foot against Guts’ shin. She swore again, as did Guts, and Griffith allowed himself another laugh before lying down, hands behind his head as he looked up at the sky. A hawk wheeled overhead, its wings catching the light of the sun.

He didn’t speak as Guts and Casca laid down beside him, Guts on his left, Casca on his right. The trio remained in silence for a while, simply watching the clouds float by. They’d never been able to do this. Throughout all the war and chaos, throughout the coronations and the weddings, and the birth of Guts and Casca’s children, who were no doubt spending the day with Uncle Pippin, they had never had the time to just lie in silence.

Griffith felt a small pang in his chest as the sun began to set in the distance. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he could take a guess. It was jealousy, at knowing Casca was married to Guts. He had accepted it, and in turn they had learnt of his feelings and accepted him, though Guts had been wary at first. It had hurt, somewhere inside him, to see Guts look at him like that, but over time the look had faded back into the one of friendship he had worn over the years, and Griffith had swallowed his pain and turned to his kingdom.

His kingdom. His impossible dream.

Yet how it prospered. Invaders were cut down by his troops, poverty was banished beyond the memory of his people, and all was joyous.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was as close to it as Griffith knew he would get.

A part of him urged him to go further, but he ignored it. He had his crown, he had his dream, his life’s work. And he intended to keep it, no matter what. He didn’t need a scandal, the Hawk King falling apart over his feelings for another man.

Besides, as long as Guts stood beside him as friend, he was happy. And with Casca too. As the woman had forged on with her own dreams, her own life, he had grown closer to her. More open.

Yes, he was happy. Sometimes jealous, but happy, and successful.

He sighed and sat up, looking down at both his friends. Both their eyes had drifted shut, but Griffith could tell from the rise and fall of their chests that Casca slept and Guts lay awake.

"Does it hurt?" Guts asked suddenly, eyes still closed. Griffith’s eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"Perhaps, but…"

"But what?"

"It’s nothing."

"Griffith, sealing yourself off like that has almost ruined you before." Guts frowned, before sitting up. "So, but what?" Griffith shook his head slightly before giving Guts a child-like grin.

"You’re still here, you’re all still with me." He paused for a moment, before letting out a sigh. "You’re not leaving me alone." Silence hung in the air for a moment before he looked at Guts. The man was staring at him. Griffith stared back, and finally the other man moved, shuffling so he sat closer to him.

"I ain’t abandoning you," he said, "though I’m sure even if I did you’d be fine."

"Think what you like."

"Always do. And besides, you couldn’t fail. Even with all the shit you’ve been through, we’ve been through, you’ve always pulled through. You’re an impossible man Griffith."

"Hm yes, impossible."

"Hah, in fact, all this feels kind of impossible. You, Casca, everyone, everything. But then I laugh at myself, because of course this is real. This is life, and who cares if it’s impossible."

"Yes…impossible."

Of course it was impossible.

…

Griffith opened his eyes and stared at the object in his hands. An elvish orb, filled with milky white liquid and shining.

An object made to show one the future. Or rather, a future, one of many that could occur if the laws of casualty did not exist.

Griffith dropped it.

He watched as it fell to the floor and shattered, its milky contents disappearing in a puff of smoke and shattered glass. He watched as the hand that had held it turned to darkness, black talons growing, his flesh burnt where it had touched the elvish object.

"I have no use for impossible things," he murmured, before turning and spreading his wings. He took off without a sound, form blending in with the night.

Yes, he had no use for impossible futures.

But that didn’t stop the strange pang in his heart.

Briefly he wondered it it could possibly be his own and not the child’s.

No.

It couldn’t.

That was impossible as well.

Impossible feelings, impossible futures.

Worthless.

All those things were dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far, thank you very much for reading my drabbles. These are quite old and odd, but I hope you got some enjoyment out of them.


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